


Wild Skies

by darkestbliss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Americanisms, Angst, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Falling In Love, Female Homosexuality, Fluff, Gay best friends, Horses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mary is Not Nice, Older John, Protective John, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Smut, Swearing, Teen Sherlock, Top John Watson, Virgin Sherlock, Wild West
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6824581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkestbliss/pseuds/darkestbliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, show jumping champion turned druggie, is sent to a small, remote ranch in Wyoming for the summer as part of his rehabilitation process. There, he meets John Watson, a beautiful and good-natured ranch hand who was raised by the West.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A nice old-fashioned Western AU. Inspiration taken from My Friend Flicka, Brokeback Mountain, and Alison Hart's young adult novel 'Shadow Horse'.

Sherlock Holmes froze as his hand loudly came into contact with the end post of the bunk where his cabin mates slept. He held his breath for a few moments, listening as Philip’s breathing shifted in tempo and he rolled over to face the center of the cabin where Sherlock was standing. A couple seconds later, the brunette’s breathing evened out again and Sherlock gave a quiet sigh of relief as he continued to put his arm through the sleeve of his hoodie. He felt in the dark for his boots, quickly slipping them onto his socked feet before moving to the door. The rusty hinges gave a shriek as he swung it open, cursing beneath his breath as he slipped into the clear Wyoming night.

 

The air was different here. Fresh, clean, and overwhelming for the lungs, which he was more than familiar with, but there was something so foreign about the mountain ranges which jutted so sharply into the air, obscuring his view of the night time sky. Where there should’ve been Joshua and walnut trees there were spruce, pine, and fir trees. Somewhere far off in the distance, probably miles away, a wolf howled. It was unsettling, being out in this kind of wilderness, but not unwelcome. Sherlock liked the isolation, the 25 miles of nothing between him and the nearest gas station, dotted only by a single highway, one other ranch, and vast expanses of wildlife.

 

As Sherlock maneuvered his way around the other cabins and towards the broken down John Deere tractor near the stables, he spotted a lone figure ahead. “Hey,” called the figure, and Sherlock rushed forward, shushing the other person.

 

“You can hear everything out here,” he whispered sharply as he walked up to Irene Adler, who pulled him in for an exaggerated kiss on the cheek.

 

“Oh calm down,” she said, fishing into the pocket of her bootcut jeans. She held out a box of Marlboro. “Ever since Mrs. Hudson started taking her herbal soothers midway through last summer, she’s been out like a rock every night.”

 

Sherlock graciously accepted a cigarette from Irene, putting it between his lips and patting his pocket for his lighter. As his hands came up empty, he grew worried for a brief second before remembering it’d been confiscated on arrival to the camp. 

 

Irene grinned knowingly, reaching out with a bright pink Bic lighter. “Here you go.”

 

Sherlock nodded, lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag before tossing the lighter back to Irene. He watched as smoke clouded the night sky, tainting the West with his sorrows and sins. “How’d you sneak those in?”

 

“I have my ways,” Irene said with a grin, illuminated only by moonlight and a flickering bulb above the stable door just a few yards away. “Besides, when you’ve been here as long as _I_ have, you learn how to bend the rules a bit.”

 

Sherlock looked at her expectantly. Irene sighed.

 

“Fine. Greg got them for me.”

 

“Greg?”

 

“Lestrade.”

 

“Oh,” said Sherlock, puzzled. Irene just gaped at him.

 

“Come on, Sherlock. This entire day has been nothing but Greg showing you around. You can’t have forgotten him already?!”

 

“Must’ve deleted it,” Sherlock replied with a shrug. He sighed, casting his eyes downward as he took another drag of his cigarette. “Been a rough day.”

 

Irene rolled her eyes and moved to crack her neck. “It’s not that long of a flight. I told you you could’ve ridden in the car with me,” she said teasingly.

 

Sherlock scoffed at the idea of a 1,000 plus mile car journey from the California high desert to the Wyoming mountains, especially with Irene’s mom and dad in the front seats. He liked the Adlers—they’d practically become his second family—but had ridden in the car with them to Los Angeles or San Diego far too many times to be comfortable with the idea of such a long journey. Besides, he rather enjoyed reading Sky Mall and observing passengers on airplanes in order to tune out Mycroft’s droning. After all, there were so many different deductions to make.

 

“How are your cabin mates?” Irene asked, changing the subject.

 

Sherlock laughed darkly, unzipping his hoodie to show Irene the black and green bruise that was already forming on his arm from where he’d been grabbed by the big, burly brunette who slept on the bed above him. “All three of them were in for bullying and assault,” said Sherlock. “One got a 14 year old girl pregnant a few years ago. He’s been blackmailing her ever since so that she won’t press any charges. He’s on his second strike, one more and he’s in prison.”

 

Irene shook her head, throwing one of her dark loose curls behind her ear and moving to sit down on the grass against the old tractor. “Boys are so fucking idiotic. I’m so glad I’m a lesbian.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock zipped up his hoodie and stubbed out his cigarette, putting the butt back into the box and moving to sit beside Irene. “How are your’s?”

 

“Same as every year,” said Irene. “Emotionally traumatised girls, took up drugs or petty crime to cope.” She laughed, shaking her head and adjusting the collar on her shirt. “Almost exactly like you. Sorry.”

 

The 19 year old boy gave a shrug, indifferent. “S’fine.”

 

Irene smiled sadly, her eyes losing their typical wit. She threw an arm over Sherlock’s slouching shoulders, giving him a squeeze. “It’s not fine, Lock. Why do you think you’re even here? My parents wouldn’t have suggested it to your’s if it was all fine. I mean, despite how I act sometimes, I do care about you so much. It makes me sad seeing you like this.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised at that statement and he moved to stare at Irene in shock. “What is this… Sentiment?”

 

“Ha ha,” said Irene dryly, giving Sherlock’s shoulder a light punch. “Seriously, though. I was doomed from the start, what with my provocative nature and all. But you had so much going for you. I wish I could, like, I don’t know? Go back and fix it all. Stop you from competing that day or-”

 

“Stop,” said Sherlock with his hand up, his head shaking rapidly. “Just… Please don’t.”

 

“Okay,” whispered Irene, squeezing her friend again. “I’m sorry, I won’t bring it up again.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“But you need to talk about it with _someone_. It’s been almost three years, Sherlock. It doesn’t have to be me, it can be anyone. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, the other ranch hands, just, _someone._ Please. That’s what all this is for.” She gestured around to the debilitated farmhouse, the five small cabins, the stables. “This place is designed to help.”

 

Sherlock grinned. “You’ve come back every summer for the previous four years,” he said.

 

Irene pursed her lips and batted her eyelashes at him. “What can I say,” she giggled. “I’m a fucking lost cause.” 

 

Letting out a sharp laugh, Sherlock leaned his head on Irene’s shoulder, his eyes floating shut for a few moments as a gust of wind reached them, sending shivers down both of their bodies.

 

“Maybe we should go back in,” Irene mumbled.

 

“Yes that would be a good idea,” came a voice. The two friends both looked up as someone approached them, dressed in flannel pyjamas and equipped with a flashlight which was shined brightly into their eyes. “First night and already sneaking out, eh Irene?” 

 

“Sorry, Mike,” said Irene with a kind-hearted smile. “Just telling Sherlock all my little tricks.”

 

Mike just laughed, shaking his head. “Only you. Seriously though, better head back in. Mrs. Hudson is making her biscuits and gravy tomorrow morning, seven am stat. Wouldn’t want to miss that.” He gave them both a wink before turning back toward the farmhouse. Sherlock and Irene watched together as his stumpy figure disappeared into the night before reappearing in the porch light, giving them a little wave as he went in through the front door. 

 

“See,” said Irene. “No problem. What’d I tell you?”

 

“Are they all so forgiving?” asked Sherlock.

 

Irene shook her head. “Greg follows the rules a bit more strictly. Don’t know why though, seeing as Mrs. Hudson has caught me sneaking out before and didn’t mind one bit. Mike is super easy-going, this place would probably run amok if he was left in charge.” She laughed fondly. “I’m not sure about John. He kind of just works on his own, never really interacts with us unless we’re out on the trails.”

 

“John?”

 

“The third ranch hand. You didn’t meet him today. Maybe tomorrow morning at breakfast.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Irene hummed, straightening out her legs with a soft click. “Shall we head back in?”

 

Nodding in agreement, Sherlock stood up. He walked with Irene back to her cabin, wishing her goodnight and giving her a gentle hug before heading back in the direction of his own cabin. Just before he slipped inside, a sharp whinny pierced through the night. Sherlock turned, looking at the stables with a sad, vacant look in his eyes, then quietly got into his bunk, pulling the homemade quilt around him tightly and falling into a dreamless, indifferent state.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the jumbled mess of American/British spelling in the first chapter. I'm an American living in England and used both my laptop and the uni's computers to write, hence the different spellings. Since this one takes place in the US I'm going to try to stick to American spelling. 
> 
> Comments would be appreciated xx

The dining room was an orchestra of clinking silverware and coffee trickling from Mrs. Hudson’s bright red coffee-pot into stained mugs. The elderly woman scurried around the table, plopping freshly baked biscuits onto previously cleared plates before pouring generous helpings of sausage gravy atop.

 

“Oh Sherlock,” she said as she came around to the side of the table where Sherlock and Irene were sitting. She nudged the curly haired teen in the back, whose plate was untouched. “Irene told me you were a picky eater. Eat up! Now we can’t have you blowing away in the wind! What would your parents say?!”

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile up at Mrs. Hudson. He piled the fluffy biscuit onto his fork and took a small bite, nodding his head in approval. Mrs. Hudson seemed happy with that, and left them to finish their breakfast.

 

“I know you have to uphold your dark and depressed reputation,” said Irene. “But if you could at least acknowledge all Mrs. Hudson does for this place, that would be great.”

 

Sherlock raised his hands in defense. “I just ate her cooking!”

 

“I know,” Irene giggled. “And thank you. Just… You know, for the future.”

 

“Okay, mom,” Sherlock replied, taking another bite of his breakfast as his best friend snorted loudly.

 

The sound of the squeaky front door opening and closing suddenly caught everyone’s attention, and a short, muscly blonde man soon entered the dining room with a huge smile plastered on his face.

 

“Morning everyone!” he called pleasantly.

 

“John!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, rushing forward with a huge plate of biscuits, gravy, sizzling bacon, and hash browns in her hands. 

 

“Lord almighty, Mrs. H,” said the man, letting out a whistle. “You do know how to treat a working man right!”

 

Sherlock watched as the man—John, he presumed—took his plate and sat down at an empty seat besides the two ranch hands he’d met yesterday whose names he could not remember. John was… Extraordinary. His bright blue eyes glittered with kindness as he conversed happily with the men around him, his smile lighting up and his eyebrows raising animatedly each time someone told him anything. Sherlock was entranced, his stare locked onto the older man.

 

As he reached across the table for the glass jug of orange juice, John’s eyes met Sherlock’s. He gave a smile to the curly haired teen, his eyes shining, before turning back to listen to something the ranch hand next to him had said. Sherlock felt his stomach jump and dance inside of him; it was a feeling he hadn’t felt in years, not since his last victory gallop.

 

“Sherlock,” Irene hissed. “You’re gaping, babe.”

 

Startled, Sherlock shook his head and turned to look at Irene. His cheeks colored as he stared at his breakfast plate, embarrassed. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

 

Irene grinned, giving his knee a squeeze beneath the table. “Got the hots for John Watson, hmm?”

 

Shushing her, Sherlock blushed even more. He snuck another glance at the blonde, who had begun to dig into his meal. Luckily, the loud chatter and the full dining table meant that Sherlock’s heated skin and sudden interest in the engraving on his fork and knife went unnoticed by everyone but Irene. 

 

“He is quite dreamy,” said Irene. “Even I can appreciate a well-sculptured man. Bet he’s a killer in bed.” 

 

If Sherlock could’ve grown any more red, he would’ve turned into a tomato. “Please be quiet,” he mumbled beneath his breath. Giggling wildly, Irene leaned her head onto the tall teen’s shoulder, batting her eyelashes.

 

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock Holmes. You love my teasing and you know it.”

 

“I would prefer if you kept it to a minimum when _other_ people are around.”

 

“And by other people you mean John Watson?” asked Irene in a singsong voice.

 

Shooting her a harsh glare, Sherlock took a long sip of his coffee. He tried desperately through the rest of breakfast to ignore the suggestive and implicative expressions his best friend continued to give him, wishing so badly to have the sort of confidence and openness that she had.

 

As everyone began to finish up and Sherlock stood to clear his plate, a hand came down roughly on his shoulder. Suddenly terrified, he quickly looked around, cursing as he realized Irene, Mrs. Hudson, and the ranch hands had all moved into the closed off kitchen. “Fuck.”

 

“Saw you eyeing up John over there,” sneered the person responsible for the darkening bruise on his arm.

 

“Please, just leave me alone,” Sherlock whispered, trying not to look into the older boy’s eyes.

 

“How’d a faggot like you end up here anyway, eh? Take it up the asshole from the wrong guy?”

 

All around them, the other camp-goers stared blankly at their plates and silverware, blatantly ignoring the act of violence which was about to happen. “Please,” said Sherlock again just as the young man grabbed his arm and twisted it sharply behind the skinny boy’s back. Sherlock could feel the groan of his bones and joints, threatening to pop and snap if twisted even just the slightest bit further. He let out the smallest moan of pain, silenced immediately by the sharp glare of the bully.

 

“Have something to say, f-”

 

“Dimmock!”

 

Relief spread through Sherlock as his arm was quickly let go of, a sharp pain already radiating through his shoulder and elbow. The bully—Dimmock—had stepped back. Sherlock whipped his head around to find John Watson, face red, eyebrows set sternly, and fists clenched and curled at his sides. Upon meeting Sherlock’s frightened eyes, his expression softened, and he stepped forward. 

 

“You okay?” he asked, gently touching the arm that Dimmock had twisted so harshly. For once, Sherlock did not flinch away from another human’s contact. The curly haired teen could only nod at John, as he was so shocked; he’d been sure that a fractured elbow had been imminent. 

 

“John I-” Dimmock tried to start. John put his hand up, silencing the bully, and he left with a grumble, the farmhouse door slamming behind him.

 

“Christ I thought a trip to the hospital was coming,” said John once Dimmock left. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He gently turned the hurt arm over, frowning at the bruises that were there from the day past.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock mumbled, suddenly wanting to run away.

 

“Sherlock?!” Sherlock groaned as Irene appeared from the kitchen, rushing forward when she saw John gingerly handling Sherlock’s arm. “John, what’s happened?”

 

Sherlock was turning beet red. He wanted to melt into the floor, be shot, _anything_ to get himself out of this situation.

 

“Dimmock was being an ass, nearly twisted his arm right off!”

 

“Shit,” said Irene, sitting down next to Sherlock. “Sherlock, was he the one who gave you that bruise yesterday?! You should’ve told me!”

 

“I didn’t know you knew him!” Sherlock said in his defense.

 

Shaking her head, Irene looked at Sherlock with a sad expression before turning to talk to John. “He’s such a jerk. I can’t believe Mrs. Hudson let him back after what happened last year with Mrs. Turner’s cows.”

 

John shrugged, finally removing his hand from Sherlock’s sore arm. “You know how Mrs. Hudson is, wants to give everyone a chance. Okay,” he said to Sherlock. “He hasn’t done any permanent damage, but you’ll definitely be hurting these next few days. I’m guessing you two know each other?”

 

Sherlock stayed quiet, but Irene nodded eagerly with a hint of a mischievous smile. “This is Sherlock, my best friend. I _must’ve_ told you about him before!”

 

John’s face lit up as his mind remembered. “Yes! Sherlock Holmes! Not sure how I didn’t put two and two together before. Who else could be worthy of the friendship of Miss Adler here?” he said with a chuckle and an overdramatic wink to Irene. Irene giggled, tucking her long black hair behind her ear flirtatiously. Feeling himself growing impossibly redder, Sherlock stared down at the table, wishing it would open up and swallow him whole.

 

Sensing his humiliation, Irene pinched Sherlock’s thigh beneath the table, away from the eyes of all the others. Sherlock suppressed a yelp but gave his friend a sidelong glare as John continued to watch them, his face stretching into the friendliest, most beautiful smile Sherlock had ever seen.

 

“Well,” he said. “I’d better be going. Stalls need mucking, fences need repairing, horses need saddling. I’ll see you both in a bit, first trail ride of the summer!”

 

“We’ll be there,” said Irene. “Bye John!”

 

John smiled at her then turned to Sherlock. His blue eyes were swirling, open, expansive, just like the nighttime sky. Lost. Sherlock was absolutely _lost_ in them. A light jab from Irene brought Sherlock out of his trance. He blinked a few times. “Bye Sherlock,” said John with a chuckle.

 

“Uh,” Sherlock stuttered, his tongue suddenly feeling far too heavy for his mouth. “Bye.”

 

And then the ranch hand gave him yet another smile, this one even brighter (impossible!), before turning and heading out of the house as Dimmock had done minutes earlier.

 

“He likes you,” Irene said a half hour later. They were sitting on the front porch together, watching from a distance as the inexperienced members of the camp were taught the names and functions for the different types of tack. Mike was demonstrating with Gladstone, a fat Shetland cross with a bushy mane, patchwork coat, and four long socks. The two friends looked on in amusement as Gladstone kept pulling from Mike, keen on getting to the patch of grass that was just a few yards away from the hitching post.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock replied, taking a big gulp of lemonade and crinkling his face at the tartness of it. It was nothing like the sugary drinks that were sold at the carts and kiosks at the horse shows back home.

 

“Oh come off of it. He’s always been the friendliest guy on Earth, but he absolutely lit up talking to you.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged, not wanting to get his hopes up. Besides, even if there was some crazy instance where John Watson wanted anything to do with him, it would be broken the instant he learned anything about him, his past, his actions. People didn’t want Sherlock Holmes, and they certainly didn’t stick up for him more than once. Quite the opposite, actually. They avoided him, did anything they could to get out of talking with him, because he was a freak, and always would be. He wasn’t worthy of John’s kindness, of his brilliant smile that put the stars and the sun to shame.

 

“Sherlock…” Irene said softly. She was staring at him intently, and Sherlock knew he’d let his emotions show through. After all, she knew him better than anyone else, even Mycroft.

 

“Goddammit,” he groaned. “If this entire summer is going to be spent with you looming over me trying to get me to open up about this shit, then I’m getting on the next flight back to California.”

 

Irene scoffed. “Fine, sorry that I’m your best friend and that I’m worried and just want the best for you!”

 

“Ha! The best? I’m done for, Irene. We all know that.”

 

She shook her head, frowning. “Stop. You know that’s not true.”

 

“Care to enlighten me, then, as to what use an ex-show jumper with a drug habit and a knack for suicidal tendencies has in the world?”

 

“Stop it!” Irene said again, sternly. Her eyebrows had formed a hard line on her face.

 

“Or maybe you’re forgetting the fact that I made a mistake so horrible that it cost a horse his-”

 

“Sherlock!” Irene stood, grabbing Sherlock by his shirt collar to bring him up as well. “I swear to fucking God if you don’t shut up this instant I will whip your ass so hard you won’t be able to sit for _weeks._ You have _got_ to stop saying this shit. It’s fucking you up! It’s fucking me up! Neither of us are going to move past this shit storm if you don’t change your damn attitude.”

 

Popping his jaw and letting a huge breath of air out, Sherlock was silent for a few moments, stuck in a stare down with Irene. He hadn’t seen his best friend so angry in a long time, years even. “I… I’m sorry,” he finally said, sitting down again and taking another sip of his lemonade. Suddenly it didn’t taste so sour on his tongue.

 

Irene sat next to him, putting her arm around his sunken shoulders. “It’s okay.” She let out a harsh laugh, shaking her head. “God, how’d we _both_ end up so fucked?”

 

“Well-”

 

“Never mind. Don’t answer that.” She pressed a light kiss to his cheek. “I love you, okay? I know you’re weird and can’t say it back but I just need you to know. Because you’re my best friend and I’d be pretty damn lost without you.”

 

Sentiment. Sherlock was never good with sentiment. So, he just nodded, and Irene seemed content with that. They turned back to the group gathered around Gladstone.

 

“Christ, Mike really is useless with that damn cinch. I’m going to go help him then go on that ride. It’s just a short one, gotta make sure the newbies don’t fall off. You coming?”

 

Sherlock shook his head, which Irene accepted with a sad smile.

 

“All right. I’ll see you later.”

 

Sherlock watched as she stood and left, leaving behind an empty lemonade glass and her straw hat. Sadly looking out as Mike and Greg helped boost people into their saddles, he made his way back to the quiet cabin, locking the door behind him, preparing himself for a long day of loneliness and craving.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been enjoying writing this so much! Please leave comments and kudos if you enjoy it :)

Sherlock and Irene were walking along the small fence line between the stables and main pasture, watching some of the horses grazing. In the distance, the sun was beginning to set over the mountains, the sky painted with rich golds and reds to the West, and a deep, darkening blue to the East. Irene had been out on the trails all day with John and the more advanced campers. Sherlock, just as he had the entire week, avoided any opportunity he had to put his body in the saddle. Instead, he’d spent the day in the garden with Mrs. Hudson and another of the new campers, Molly Hooper. Sherlock liked Molly. She’d listened as he told her which flowers were more likely to attract bees and which plants should and should not be planted next to each other.

 

“That’s John’s horse,” said Irene, pointing out a stocky chestnut further down the fence line. “Her name’s Ginger, I think she’s an American Quarter horse.”

 

Sherlock gave a half nod. “Looks like it,” he said softly.

 

“You plan on riding at _all_ this summer?”

 

“I’d rather not,” Sherlock replied plainly.

 

Irene shrugged, stopping and hopping onto the pasture fence. Across the fields and toward the tree line they could see a group of riders, led by Mike and Greg atop Gladstone and a short blue roan. “I can’t believe they’ve worked here coming on five years and are still both so shit at riding.”

 

Just as Irene spoke, Greg’s horse—the blue roan—stumbled, leaving Greg to desperately clutch at the horse’s mane. Sherlock couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at the scene. “Christ, you’re right,” he said.

 

Smiling up at him, Irene pulled a peppermint from her pocket. She turned back to the pasture, clucking at Zap, a blanket appaloosa and the horse she’d ridden each summer since she’d started coming to the ranch. Zap trotted up, his ears perking as he spotted the treat Irene was handing out. She giggled as his whiskers tickled her hand. When he finished the mint, he nodded his head, nearly pushing Irene off the pasture fence as he begged for more.

 

“That’s enough you greedy boy,” said Irene, pressing a gentle kiss to his nose. Zap snorted, stepping back before galloping back across the pasture to join the other horses. Sherlock watched intensely, cataloging each horse’s movement and behavior. “You’re sad. You miss it all.”

 

“Well, yeah,” Sherlock responded.

 

“I think you should get out and ride. It would be… Different. You know, from how it was before. Different discipline, all that.”

 

Shaking his head, the boy frowned. “I can’t. I want to, but I just, can’t.”

 

Irene stepped down from the fence, tugging Sherlock down and into a hug. It was a few seconds before Sherlock squeezed her back, resting his head on her shoulder and blinking into her dark hair, inhaling deeply. He loved the smell of Irene, always had. She smelled like home, like compassion, like the only human friend he’d ever had.

 

In the distance, a bell chimed, signaling that it was time to go inside for supper. Irene led the way back to the farmhouse where corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, gravy, and chicken casserole awaited them. They were the first to sit at the table, everyone else coming in within the next five minutes. John never joined, and Sherlock, disappointed, ate his dinner in silence.

 

“I never get to see him,” he complained later that evening. He and Irene were sitting on a small rock by the drive leading out onto the main road, looking over the entire ranch as they smoked.

 

“He’s a busy guy, definitely the most hard-working on this ranch. He’s basically run it since he got back from college. He’s turned it around. You should’ve seen it before he was here; everything was falling apart and now all that’s left to fix up is the farmhouse.”

 

“What about Mike and… Graham?”

 

“Greg!” Irene snorted. “His name is Greg. And yeah, they tried, but John was born and raised on a ranch. Mike and Greg are from the town, they don’t know the land and the animals the way John does.”

 

Sherlock pouted, kicking a patch of dirt with the heel of his boot and watching it dissipate into the night sky. Irene was watching him intently.

 

“You’re crushing on him, aren’t you?”

 

Sherlock gave her a sarcastic glance. “What do you think? He’s the first person in a long time to not treat me like shit _and_ he’s gorgeous to look at.”

 

“Hey I don’t treat you like shit!”

 

“You know what I mean,” Sherlock grumbled.

 

They sat in silence for a bit, watching as the last of the lights in the farmhouse flickered off, Mrs. Hudson probably finishing her cleaning for the night. 

 

“You have to make an effort with John,” Irene finally said a few minutes later. They’d both started their second cigarette of the night. “Like I said, he’s busy. You can’t just wait around for him or sit and sulk like you’ve been doing so far this summer. He spends most of the time with us when we go out on the trails. Other than that, he’s got, like, absolutely no free time. He rarely even eats with us. A lot goes into making sure a farm doesn’t fall flat on its face.”

 

Pursing his lips, Sherlock finished his cigarette, intent on heading back for the night. Just as he was about to stand up, headlights came into view, coming toward the pair from the main road. Irene squinted, her eyes growing bigger as she seemed to recognize the vehicle. She quickly stubbed out her own cigarette and stuffed the box into the pocket of her jeans.

 

“That’s John!” she said. “Make sure he never sees you smoking. He’ll freak out.”

 

Sherlock nodded, keeping quiet as the vehicle came closer. By this time Sherlock could see it was the old rickety pick-up truck that was sometimes parked in front of the house. It drove by and into its typical spot, the driver apparently not noticing the two friends sitting on the boulder. Irene and Sherlock watched as the engine switched off and John Watson got out, taking a few bags of supplies from the passenger seat and going into the house.

 

“Right,” said Irene. “Crisis averted. What were we talking about?” She laughed. “Oh right, that you want John Watson to bang you.”

 

Suddenly Sherlock’s skin felt like it had been lit on fire. He slapped Irene on the arm, feeling completely mortified even though it was just the two of them outside.

 

“Oh come on, Sherlock! It was a joke!”

 

“Can you keep quiet about this for one fucking moment? God, I can’t tell you anything.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Irene said with a giggle. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

 

Frowning, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak then shut it again, thinking over his words. “I just… John is so-”

 

“I’m what?”

 

Shocked, Sherlock’s head whipped up to find none other than the perfect human being that was John Watson, just a few yards away with a huge grin on his face, staring right into Sherlock’s eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments so far! They've made me so damn happy. I've really struggled making friends in the Sherlock fandom, so seeing such nice comments has really made it seem a bit more possible :) I'd love to make friends, so if you want to chat, I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/simonjpg), Kik (screenag3r), and two Tumblr blogs: [My main blog](http://simonjpg.tumblr.com/) and [my Sherlock sideblog](http://honeybeesandbakerstreet.tumblr.com/) :)

“Oh damn it’s really late,” Irene quickly blurted out, standing and hurriedly walking toward her cabin. “I’m going to be so tired tomorrow! You two have a good night!” She could not have sounded more unconvincing. 

 

There was nothing more Sherlock wanted to do than run after Irene—either that or scream at her—but he was stuck, John Watson’s eyes burning holes into Sherlock’s. 

 

“U-h… Uh,” he stuttered, finally unlocking his head and darting his gaze back and forth, from the truck to the farmhouse then back to John. “I… I should be going too!” He turned to make a run for it, but not before John’s hand gently came to grasp the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat.

 

“Wait a second!”

 

Sherlock was frozen in place, holding his breath as John moved to face him, a gentle and kind smile plastered firmly on his face.

 

“I actually wanted to talk to you earlier, I thought you’d be out on the trails with us.”

 

“I… I’m sorry.”

 

John’s eyebrows furrowed and he frowned. “What? There’s no need to apologize! I was just a bit sad is all. Anyway, I need to ask you something. I hope that’s okay?”

 

Fearful, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching John Watson very _very_ carefully. He’d yet to properly study the man; in fact, he found it quite difficult to deduce the ranch hand, even after he’d heard the slightest bit of back story from Irene. The last time someone besides Irene had asked Sherlock for something, he’d wound up nearly dead in a drug den. He couldn’t let John get too far into his head. Lust was making him weak, putting him at a disadvantage, as Mycroft would say. He had to tread carefully, crush or no crush, because John Watson had the ability to completely break Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Startled, Sherlock’s glazed over eyes refocused on the blonde that was standing in front of him. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he sputtered. It was a sad attempt at a deduction. 

 

John seemed taken aback. “Wh-what?” A deep line appeared between his eyebrows.

 

Suddenly turning a shade of ghostly white at the realization of what he’d said, Sherlock shook his head. “Never mind. I’m sorry.”

 

“No, what was that about?” John persuaded, his gaze softening.

 

“Forget about it,” Sherlock replied. “Just ask me what you were going to so we can get this over with.

 

“No, you asked me ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’? How could you have-”

 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to say that. I wasn’t thinking.”

 

“Sherlock,” John said softly. He gently reached out again, but Sherlock pulled away.

 

“I have to go. Goodnight, John.”

 

Sherlock nearly sprinted to his cabin, not looking back once, too embarrassed to face John Watson. He tossed and turned all night, his dreams plagued by memories of cracked walls and dirty mattresses.

 

The next morning, John was not at breakfast. Of course he wasn’t; he had better things to do of course. He did not need to waste his time defending Sherlock from Dimmock or Anderson, making Sherlock feel good about himself. He was a busy man… Sherlock knew that, and had to repeatedly tell himself that to avoid disappointment. 

 

He was leaning against the cool concrete wall inside the barn, his fingers wrinkled and white. Everyone had left to go out on the trails again, and Mrs. Hudson had asked if he would clean and oil some of the old bridles that were buried beneath year’s worth of dust in the back of the tack room. He’d been at it for about an hour now, his fingers beginning to cramp; it’d been a few years since he’d had to clean tack, and he certainly wasn’t so used to such cheap and damaged leather. He hummed Vivaldi to himself as he started on the last bridle and was startled as he heard the barn door open and close shut. Footsteps echoed, a horse nickered, and Sherlock craned his neck to see who it was that had come into the barn. 

 

The sturdy body of John Watson appeared in front of him suddenly and Sherlock jumped back, surprise knocking him nearly off his feet. He dropped the bridle to the floor and lifted his boot to attempt to catch it, knocking over the bucket of sudsy water in the process.

 

“Fuck!” he shouted, leaping out of the way.

 

“Whoa there,” John chuckled, stepping forward and steadying the flailing teenager. “You okay?”

 

Feeling all the blood rush to his pale cheeks, Sherlock nodded, scrambling to pick up the bridle and start drying it off. John turned the bucket upright, setting it behind him near the wash stalls. He leaned casually against a saddle rack. Sherlock nearly couldn’t keep his eyes off the bulge at the front of his jeans.

 

“So…” he started with a clearing of his throat. Sherlock quickly looked up with nervous eyes. “You ran away last night before I could ask you what I wanted to ask.”

 

Sherlock just stayed silent, wiping the towel quickly over the bridle in his hands. He could feel John’s eyes on him, darting from his hands to his head and back again.

 

“Anyway. I’m going into town today for the annual horse auction. Mrs. Hudson suggested you come with. Said it’d be good for you. What do ya think?”

 

“I… What? You hate me.”

 

Frowning, John shook his head. “What? We don’t really know each other, Sherlock. Why on Earth would I hate you?”

 

“I just assumed, after last night, when I started to deduce you.”

 

“Ah,” John said with a nod. “So that’s what that was? Deducing, hmm.” He gave Sherlock a slight smile. “I’m still not sure what that was or what it entailed, but I’d like to hear more about it? We need to leave soon, how about you tell me about it on the ride into town?”

 

Sherlock hesitated for a small moment. John was being nice to him, surely it was all a trick? He had the opportunity, though. It would take a good hour or so to get into town, and the auction would no doubt be another few hours. Adding in the ride back, that was a half day with John Watson. Perhaps with no one else there, John would be mean to him. However, with a quick calculation in his mind, Sherlock decided he would take the chance. So, he nodded, and John smiled so beautifully he thought his heart would melt.

 

“That’s great! Perfect! Give me ten minutes? Just going to hitch the trailer up to the truck and grab us some sandwiches.”

 

Sherlock just nodded dumbly, watching as John smiled at him (again!) and turned to walk out of the barn. Once the barn door shut, he turned back to the neglected bridle in his hand, giving it one more wipe clean and hanging it on the hook. He cleaned the leather grime from his hands and wiped them on his jeans. As he made to leave the barn and find John, he took a huge breath, steadying himself and attempting to avoid the panic that was quickly scrambling up his spine.

 

A half day with John. He could do it. If John was mean to him, what difference would it make? Plenty of people had been mean to Sherlock in his lifetime; far too many to count, in fact. It shouldn’t make a difference if John joined that group, at least, that’s what Sherlock told himself. A tiny nagging voice in the back of his hand reminded him otherwise though, because John Watson was different, and by going on this trip into town, Sherlock was surely setting himself up for heartbreak.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd here we have the deduction chapter. This was so difficult to write. I've received such lovely comments on the last few chapters and it's really kept me going, so thank you for that :)
> 
> Feel free to chat with me on [Tumblr](http://simonjpg.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/simonjpg)! I love being trash and yelling about Johnlock.

The front bumper of John’s old pickup truck rattled uncontrollably, pinging and clunking every few feet they traveled down the road. Sherlock was grateful for the distraction; the cabin of the truck felt cramped and hot, the air conditioner broken and spewing nothing but dust. Sherlock felt that with every breath, he was absorbing John Watson. It was frighteningly unbearable.

 

“You okay?” John asked about ten minutes outside of town. Sherlock had been silent the entire ride so far.

 

Sherlock just nodded stiffly. John smelled of leather and sweat and coffee and it was everything Sherlock ever could’ve dreamed of. He was suffocating.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked again a few moments later. His voice was laced with suspicion, the truck slowing just a tiny bit.

 

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock said abruptly.

 

John replied with a ‘hmph’ and turned his attention back to the road ahead. He didn’t speak again for another five minutes. “So…” he started. “Deducing. Care to explain to me exactly what that is?”

 

“Are you sure?” asked Sherlock.

 

“Well why wouldn’t I be? You’re not going to say anything bad about me are you?” John gave a light-hearted chuckle.

 

For a few moments, Sherlock observed John, his composure, his haircut, his belt buckle, his boots. In that time, a worried expression grew on John’s face, his forehead crinkling and his eyes setting in a hard line. However, Sherlock shook his head and John looked relieved. He had a lot to say about John Watson, but none of it was negative.

 

“Go on then.”

 

“I can know everything about a person just from observing them,” Sherlock warned. “Most people tell me to fuck off.”

 

“Try me. What do you know about me? Deduce me, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Studying him for just a few seconds, Sherlock narrowed his eyes in concentration. Of course, he’d deduced John the first second he’d laid eyes on him, but after some of his talks with Irene and seeing the man up close and personal, there were a few things he’d originally missed. 

 

“Well,” he started hesitantly. “I know that you’re the only ranch hand who goes out on the trails without carrying a gun, in fact you don’t even take it when you’re alone at night, and you carry pepper spray instead. I know you went to college in the city to study plant or animal science, given the nature of your upbringing. Probably UC Davis or Berkeley seeing as they’re the most prestigious in that subject. You were born and raised on a ranch but wanted to get out and experience the real world, but you came back a few weeks before your final term began. 

 

“As stated before, you dislike guns, will potentially put yourself in danger out on the trails by not carrying one. But there must be a reason then, something personal, as every person out here owns and carries a gun. No guns and leaving a prestigious university just mere months before graduating, probably with a high GPA and honors given your work ethic. A family emergency then; your father was killed in action. You weren’t close but you respected him and have pride in your family; you still have the military haircut and wear your brother’s old belt buckle. So. Your military dad got shot and killed and you left college to take care of your mother and alcoholic brother so I ask again, where was it that he fought, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

The silence in the truck was heavy for a few long seconds before John began to slow down and pull to the side of the road. All around them was nothing but mountains and trees and Sherlock began to fear the worst. He plotted in his mind the fastest way to run into town and get help, if he could even outrun John. It turned out he didn’t have to think too much, because before he could reach to unbuckle his seatbelt and make a run for it, John opened his mouth.

 

“That was absolutely fucking amazing.”

 

“I… What?”

 

John was blinking at Sherlock, his eyes wide as saucers and his brow furrowed in astonishment. “Incredible. Unreal, really. Oh, and it was Afghanistan.”

 

“You’re not mad?” Sherlock asked apprehensively.

 

“Mad? No way. Uncomfortable, a bit, but not mad. That was kind of awesome.”

 

Sherlock blushed, resulting in John giving him a huge smile and putting the truck back into gear. As they pulled back onto the road, Sherlock spoke. “I usually get punched after deducing someone. I’ve never had that kind of reaction.”

 

“Well fuck those people. It’s an amazing talent!” John exclaimed. “What else do you know about me? I’ll try to keep driving this time.” He gave a wink and Sherlock’s heart fluttered.

 

“I know you don’t come from a lot of money but that you work for Mrs. Hudson for next to nearly no pay—”

 

“How’d you know about the alcoholism?” John interrupted.

 

“Oh, um, your belt buckle. It’s not too old, so it can’t be your father’s, but the engraving says ‘H. Watson’. Your brother, then. Alcoholic, going by the scratches. You never see scratches on a sober man’s buckle.”

 

“Wonderful.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah.” John gave him a huge grin. 

 

“Did I miss anything?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.

 

John’s grin just got even bigger. His eyes were locked on the road ahead; they were beginning to see a few more buildings, sparsely dotted amongst the Wyoming wilderness. “Dad died four and a half years ago. Got the call the night before spring term registration, in fact. Berkeley, it was. I did zoology. My thesis was just about finished, but I came straight home when I got the call. They shot him right in the chest.” He gave a dark laugh. “Dad and I were never close, different views, you know? Part of the reason I went to college in the bay area; I wanted to get out of the conservative household. But he was still my dad. I still loved him.”

 

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said honestly.

 

“It’s okay,” said John with a shrug. “Anyway, came home to a depressed mom and a drinking Harry. Mrs. Hudson immediately offered me a place back here. She raised me more than Mom and Dad, to be honest. Was always just a phone call and a pick up truck ride away. I’ve never liked guns. Dad getting shot and killed was just the cherry on top. I know everyone out there has one, but I don’t see the need. Bears and cougars will keep away as long as we respect them. It’s a cohabitation.”

 

“So I got everything,” Sherlock said, smiling to himself.

 

“Well,” John replied, turning quickly to give him a smug grin. “There is _one_ thing.” 

 

Sherlock huffed.

 

“Harry is short for Harriet.”

 

“Fuck,” Sherlock groaned. “There’s always something!”

 

John let out a deep chuckle. They had reached the outskirts of town; there was an old diner and a gas station ahead, with a few low-income apartment complexes running low behind a general store. The town wasn’t much to look at, but it was the meeting point for all the ranches within hundreds of miles. It had the necessities: a City Hall, a half-burned down bowling alley, a farm store, an old movie theater that only played reruns of Indiana Jones, a police and fire station, the general store, and the event site, which consisted of more arenas and rodeo pens than Sherlock had seen in his entire life.

 

They pulled up onto a grass parking lot. Glancing around, Sherlock wondered how they would distinguish John’s truck from all the others afterward. They all appeared the same, down to the rusty, unhinged front bumper and suspiciously low pressured tires.

 

“Why am I here again?” he asked as John swung himself from the truck, his hips swaying in his denims. Sherlock looked down at his own jeans, shirt, and boots, comparing himself to all the worn men and women who were walking toward the main arena. He felt so obviously out of place, his boots still shiny and his jeans un-frayed. He was uncomfortable; after about five minutes of ease with John Watson, he suddenly felt like shit again, like the air around the other man was suffocating him.

 

John quickly looked him up and down and, upon seeing how out of place he looked, winked. “We’re gettin’ you a horse.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I had a friend visiting who is unaware of the wonderful world of fanfiction so I was unable to write without her asking what I was doing. I hope this chapter makes up for the long wait! Again, thank you so much for all the lovely comments <3

“John, I…. Surely Mrs. Hudson must have told you.” Sherlock was fidgeting with his frayed seat belt, swallowing back the largest lump of fear and anxiety. “I don’t… I don’t do the horse thing. I don’t think I’ll ever ride again.”

 

“Well from what I know you did the horse thing for 13 years.”

 

“Yes but, things have changed.”

 

John scrunched his lip, gnawing at it with his teeth. “I want to help, you know. Whatever happened…” He waved his hands then kicked at a stone with his boot. “Whatever happened, I can help.”

 

Letting out a cynical laugh, Sherlock shook his head. “You really can’t, though.”

 

“Mmm, okay. But I can listen. That helps.”

 

Hesitating, Sherlock unbuckled his seat belt and stepped down and out of the truck. “Maybe later,” he said.

 

“Okay, I can take that,” John replied with a serious expression. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, their eyes locking for a moment, and Sherlock was sure his heart leapt out of his chest and splattered onto the grassy ground. John was standing close: too close, yet not close enough. His eyes were reading him too much, more closely than any drug counselor had ever read him; for the first time in his life, Sherlock was left feeling as if he was being deduced. “You are… An enigma, Sherlock Holmes,” John whispered. “What I wouldn’t give to understand.” He leaned forward, even closer than before, and Sherlock held his breath. He watched as John’s lips parted, closed, then parted again.

 

Sherlock shut his eyes. There was no way this was happening. John was definitely _not_ looking at him like that.

 

Suddenly, John stepped back and looked around, taking a sharp breath. “Shit, uh, I’m sorry,” he swore, kicking at the ground. “Fuck.” Sherlock watched with wide eyes. While John was standing further away now, his body still leaned in Sherlock’s direction, his gaze and posture open, welcoming.

 

And then, the moment broke. John turned, walking toward the main arena without another word, and Sherlock had no other option but to follow.

 

The atmosphere inside the arena was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He looked around frantically for John; everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing, and Sherlock felt absolutely lost.

 

“Sherlock,” came a voice from behind him. 

 

Sherlock turned, finding John waiting for him just beside a railing. Just past him Sherlock could see a round pen full of horses. It made him frighteningly uncomfortable, to see so many horses packed into such a small place.

 

“Bit different from what you’re used to, huh?”

 

“You can say that again,” Sherlock mumbled as he joined John, taking in his dusty surroundings again. As he looked around, he noticed so many things: a few pigeons’ nests, broken wood slats in the bleachers, a dismantled speaker system that looked as if it’d arrived straight out of the 80s, and old rusted nails sticking out of random places which surely would’ve led to a long and complicated involvement with lawyers had they shown up at the event sites in the California desert. He looked again at the pen full of horses. “Are they all going to slaughter?” he asked, his voice going very quiet.

 

“Sadly, yes, most of them will,” John said. “The ones at a good weight especially. The skinnier, sick ones will go to middle men who beef them up then send them over the Mexican border to slaughter.”

 

Sherlock could feel painful memories bubbling to the surface, of the bullying he’d received as a child at school. There was almost nothing as hurtful to a child as referring to their beloved animal as dog meat to spark a reaction.

 

“Almost all the horses on our ranch are auction horses,” John continued, although Sherlock’s fallen face did not go unnoticed by the rancher. “A lot of auction horses are wild or un-rideable, but occasionally you’ll get an old family horse that ended up in the wrong hands. They just need some love and some care, and then they’re perfect for the campers. We’re a ranch that’s meant to give young adults a second chance; it’s only fair that we give animals a second chance as well.”

 

“Do you ever save the wild ones?” Sherlock asked as the auction started. The first horse was obviously untamed - a mustang; Sherlock knew by its build. There was no halter on it, and it was chased around the ring by a team of ranchers as the auctioneer spoke. No more than 15 seconds passed by before the horse was sold to a gruff man a few rows behind John and him. Slaughter, Sherlock deduced.

 

“No,” said John as they watched the ranchers attempt to wrangle the mustang to the other side of the arena. “We don’t have the time to tame and train them. Even the more experienced campers are never here long enough to even saddle them up, nevertheless ride them.”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips, saddened by this news. Another couple untamed horses were showcased and auctioned off, probably to slaughter. Sherlock was troubled. He watched John’s observations of each horse that came in and out of the ring; he’d yet to bid on a single one. 

 

“God, what I wouldn’t give to be able to rescue every single one,” John said. “To just… Have the time to take care and nurture all of them. They deserve it, they really do. I wish I could do it.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging dejectedly. 

 

It was a long few minutes until Sherlock spoke. “I could.”

 

“Hmm?” John asked, pulling his attention from the old, emaciated appaloosa being lead around the ring. Sherlock had never seen such an extreme case of swayback.

 

“I meant… I could train a wild horse.”

 

John narrowed his eyes apprehensively. “Only a half hour ago you were telling me you’d never get on a horse again.”

 

Shrugging, Sherlock gave a weak smile. “I never said I would ride it. But I’ve taken green horses and handled and broken them in before. Should be able to do it again.”

 

“You wouldn’t ride a horse you completely tamed?” 

 

The auction continued on behind the two young men, completely forgotten.

 

“John, I…” Sherlock sighed, his voice cracking. “What I did. What happened. It breaks people. It broke me.”

 

John shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault, I know that much.”

 

“You don’t even know what happened,” Sherlock hissed, lashing out. His eyes narrowed to small points; why couldn’t John just _get_ it?! Sherlock was a complete fuck up, and John had to learn that.

 

“Sherlock,” John started, but Sherlock was already up and hurrying away from the ring. He followed the signs to the men’s room and quickly locked himself inside a stall. Immediately, the tears began to flow.

 

He could hear men come and go: the sound of urine hitting urinals, the sink taps being turned on and off, that sputtering noise the automatic hand dryers make. When the door slammed shut and Sherlock was sure he was left alone, he let out a sharp sob, his chest caving and his head pounding. A dangerous cocktail of anxiety and possible relapse stirred through his veins; he wondered where he could find heroin in this godforsaken town.

 

There was a tap on his stall door and Sherlock leapt up, nearly falling off the closed toilet lid. “Sherlock,” came John’s gentle voice. He attempted to push the door open but Sherlock had thankfully locked it. John couldn’t see him like this.

 

“Go away,” he muttered, a sob wrenching through him. A slump of snot strung from his nose, dripping onto his jeans. He quickly wiped it away with his sleeve.

 

“Sherlock, please let me in. No one else is here. I’ll lock the door if you want?”

 

“I told you to go away.”

 

He heard John sigh, his cowboy boots tapping on the concrete. The other man was wandering around the restroom, going to the sinks. Sherlock listened as he splashed water onto his face then returned outside the stall door, pushing again. “You can’t stay in there forever, you know. If you open the door we can talk.”

 

Sherlock wiped at his eyes, shaking his head even though he knew John was unable to see him. “Please just leave me alone, John.” His words were choppy and forced. They hurt to say. A weird part of him wanted John to stay, to hold him and dry his tears and listen. No one ever listened to Sherlock.

 

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

 

Fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, Sherlock stood and unlocked the stall door. He quickly sat back down on the toilet and hunched over.

 

“Hey,” John whispered, kneeling down in front of him.

  
Taking a chance, Sherlock looked up. What he found made him openly weep, and his facade crumbled again. John’s eyes, they were so blue and open and quite possibly completely genuine.

 

“It’s okay.”

 

And then, the stall door was locked again and John was taking him into his arms, running a hand through his curls, calmly humming. Sherlock choked back another sob, leaning into John’s embrace and letting his tears soak into John’s shirt.

 

“You’re okay,” John whispered, shifting so that he could sit on the toilet seat and hoist Sherlock properly into his lap. “That’s it.”

 

A few long minutes passed and not a single person had disturbed them. Sherlock finally felt as if he had his emotions and urges under control; a cigarette seemed much more tempting than a syringe. He clambered off of John, reddening as he saw the tear marks he’d left on his shirt. John shrugged.

 

“Nothing I’m not used to,” he said. “It’s okay, really. Hell, Irene’s done it a few times.” He stood, straightening out his jeans. “Let’s get you washed up, okay?”

 

Sherlock just nodded numbly, following John to the sinks. As the ranch hand wetted a paper towel and handed it to him, the 19 year old sighed. “I want to tell you,” he said. “Just not right now. Not here.”

 

Smiling slightly, John nodded. “That’s okay. Take your time, okay?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Now, I’m not going to force you into anything, but Mrs. Hudson really expects me to come back with a horse today. Is it okay if we go back out?”

 

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “That’s okay. I’ll just… Stay back.”

 

“Okay.” 

 

John smiled at him again and led the way back out. Sherlock still felt like his face was red and that his eyes were threatening to spill again at any moment, but he kept himself in check as they made their way back to the ring. They watched as a few horses were shown, John bidding on one gelding who seemed sturdy and tame, even though he was just a bit underweight. However, the bid quickly rose above John’s allocated $450, and he was forced to give up.

 

It seemed like the day would be unsuccessful. Only a few horses remained to be auctioned, and they were going fast. As one of the last was brought out, Sherlock froze.

 

The mare was an American Quarter, tall, and blacker than any horse Sherlock had ever seen before. He’d been a child once, enamored with the notion of having a mysterious black horse to ride and adventure with just like every horse obsessed kid had. It was when he turned nine that he’d realized how pointless this craze was, how utterly impossible it was. Horses like that only existed in novels and movies, of course.

 

But this horse… She was blacker than Black Beauty and the Black Stallion, both fictional and actually dark bay in color. Not a hint of red or brown could be spotted in her coat, at least as far as Sherlock could tell with her thrashing legs and wild eyes. Her mane was pulled short but uneven, her hooves overgrown, and Sherlock saw _something_.

 

“This is the horse you need to get,” he told John, his voice steady. He was 100% sure about this.

 

“What?” John asked in disbelief, looking at him with a hunched eyebrow. “She’s crazy! There’s no way I’d let any of our campers on that horse. Hell, _I_ wouldn’t even get on that horse.”

 

“She’s not wild. Definitely a Quarter horse, look at her hindquarters and forehead, unmistakeable for a Quarter. Her mane has been pulled, rather poorly, but there was an attempt. Her hooves are overgrown but in good condition, evidence of a balance between stable and pasture. I swear to you, John, if you get this horse, you will have a worker for life.”

 

Shaking his head, John reluctantly raised his hand to bid. No one else challenged his low bid of $75, and before he knew it, the auctioneer shouted “Sold!” and the mare was being crowded to the other end of the ring and chased into a separate pen. John looked at Sherlock again in disbelief, shaking his head.

 

“Mrs. Hudson is going to be so mad at me,” he said, chuckling before looking at Sherlock more seriously. “What am I supposed to do now?”

 

“Nothing, John,” replied Sherlock. He watched as a few ranchers tried to get a halter on the mare. She squealed and kicked out, the bars of the pen clanging and ringing through the site. Sherlock smiled. “She will be my responsibility. 100%.”

 

John still looked suspicious. “How do you expect to handle that horse without getting your skull kicked in?”

 

“It will certainly be a challenge,” Sherlock agreed. “Something to do while the rest of you adventure out on the trails all day.”

 

John glanced at him thoughtfully. “What will you call her?” he asked softly.

 

Sherlock blinked, watching a rancher cover the black mare’s eyes in an attempt to calm her. She thrashed out more, more people jumping in to help wrangle the distraught horse. “Ebony,” he said. “Her name will be Ebony.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for how late this chapter is! It's been almost completely written for a few weeks now, I've just struggled to put the final words down since getting home for the summer. I'm so sorry it's so short, hopefully the next chapter makes up for it ;)

"The hell is this?!" Irene exclaimed with her hands on her hips. Next to her, with eyes wide with innocence yet caked in black eyeliner, stood Molly Hooper with her bright purple hair, a bit ofmousy blonde coming through at the roots. A few others were gathered around as well as Ebony sprang out of the stock trailer, hooves flying in every direction.

 

"She's just frightened," Sherlock said stubbornly. As he spoke, Ebony lashed outwards, baring her teeth at John who was attempting to get a rope around her neck.

 

"By God!" John yelled.

 

"You be careful, John," Mrs. Hudson warned. She was standing beside Sherlock, making small gasping noises every time the mare would do so much as move a few inches. She tutted occasionally. "Never have I ever seen a horse so violent! Hell, she's behaving like a bull!"

 

Irene snickered. "Gonna need some of your herbal soothers tonight, eh Hudders?"

 

Mrs. Hudson gave Irene a wink before turning her attention back to the violent horse. "Sherlock, deary," she whispered, hobbling up next to the curly haired teen. Sherlock put his arm around her, steadying the older woman. Her hip had really been bothering her the previous week. "I'm not sure how I feel about you being around that horse," she said softly. "If you were to get hurt... Lord, I don't know what I would say to your parents! Or even worse, Mycroft!"

 

Rolling his eyes at the mention of his absolutely _dreadful_ brother's name, Sherlock shook his head to reassure Mrs. Hudson. "She'll be fine. Once John gets her in her stall she will calm down. Something tells me she hasn't had quality human attention for quite some time, and what she has had most likely harmed her." 

 

He watched his horse with careful eyes. His horse. Ebony was his. Maybe not legally—it was technically Mrs. Hudson whom she belonged to—but there was some sort of connection he felt to her. Finally it seemed she was calm enough to lead into the barn. Earlier, a stall with fresh shavings, water, alfalfa hay, and oats had been prepared for her. It was roomy, usually used as a foaling stall so as to give her room in case she thrashed. Once she was safely inside and the door had swung shut and it was only Sherlock who was present, her glaring eyes softened. 

 

"Quite the beauty isn't she?"

 

Sherlock turned around to see two girls: Molly and another girl with short, wavy blonde hair.

 

"Hey, Sherlock." She gave Sherlock a small smile, quite the contrast from the dark look of her. Sherlock hadn't really had the opportunity to hang out much with Molly, only that one day in the garden with Mrs. Hudson a couple weeks back. He liked her a lot, though. He gave a little wave then looked to the blonde standing by Molly's side. "This is Mary. She just got here today. Quite the show to come to on your first day!"

 

Mary stood with her arms across her chest, looking completely unimpressed. Sherlock quickly deduced the girl, finding the source of her expression; she had experience with horses, in the hunter ring going by her immaculate hair, build, and Joules polo shirt. Besides the fact that she was strategic—a champion, then—Sherlock could deduce absolutely nothing else about her. Inside his head floated question marks, her sly eye catching his every gaze as he tried to gather something else. She didn't seem like a threat; she seemed more like a challenge, and a mysterious one at that.

 

“Once she understands I won’t harm her, things should progress rather quickly. I’d say there’s a possibility she’s even been ridden before,” Sherlock said.

 

“Well I sure as hell wouldn’t be caught dead on a horse like that,” Mary piped in, eyeing Sherlock as he held a hand out to Ebony and she charged forward.

 

“Me neither,” added Molly. She sighed, turning to Mary. “I’m going to help Mrs. Hudson, you want to come?”

 

“Sure,” said Mary.

 

As the two girls left, Sherlock looked around, realizing he was once again alone with his horse. Very steadily, he allowed his hand to come close to the iron bars of her stall. Ebony stared, her ears twitching to and fro.

 

“Hey,” Sherlock whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.” His voice was steady, unwavering.

  
Tentatively, the mare took a step forward. Sherlock smiled.

 

“That’s it!” he encouraged softly. 

 

He took a chance, letting his hand slip between the iron bars and into the stall. He allowed his hand fall open, a carrot sitting in the middle of the palm. At this, Ebony’s ears perked completely forward and she took a few more steps toward him. Finally, a smile erupted on Sherlock’s face as he felt the tickle of her whiskers on his palm as she gently took the carrot. 

 

“Good girl. You’re not so dangerous, just misunderstood. Like me.”

 

His fingers trailed up to Ebony’s muzzle, giving it a gentle scratch. At this, she snorted and backed away, but was quick to return when Sherlock held out another carrot.

 

“We’ll stick with just this for tonight,” he said gently, feeding her one more carrot before taking his hand out of the stall. “You’ve had quite the long day. So have I. Being here is quite exhausting, isn’t it?” He watched her for a few minutes as she explored her stall with curiosity. Smiling sadly, Sherlock wiped at his eye; a sudden feeling of melancholy had washed over him, of longing and loneliness that he could not put into words, at least not so that a human could understand.

 

He stayed with Ebony for the better of three hours, missing dinner when the bell chimed and late being passed almost unnoticed by Mike and Greg as they prepared nighttime feedings for the few horses who were kept in the stalls just down from Ebony’s. 

 

As night fell, Sherlock knew he should get to his cabin. The stable was growing colder and colder and he was still only dressed in his button-down. He sighed, wiping his eyes one last time, giving Ebony a sad smile. He wondered if she understood how he was feeling, completely lost, broken, useless. It was a stretch, he thought to himself.

 

The day had been long; Sherlock’s legs were heavy with fatigue and his stomach threatened to rumble. He had, after all, skipped supper. When he left the stable with a flick of the light switch behind him, he failed to notice the eyes of a certain blonde, following him as they had been doing the entire evening.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Holy shit, watch it!” came a shriek from Sherlock’s left. Irene had taken it upon herself to repeatedly fling little droplets of water in Molly Hooper’s direction as the three washed up the dishes in Mrs. Hudson’s cozy kitchen. “Irene!”

 

Irene cackled, blowing a few dish soap bubbles in the other girl’s direction. Sherlock rolled his eyes; he knew flirting when he saw it, and this was textbook flirtation from Irene Adler. “Please get a room,” he said grumpily as he watched Molly wink back at Irene who was now side-eyeing the other girl and rolling her eyes at Sherlock. His skin was wrinkled and he was anxious and Dimmock had grabbed his arm again this morning, leaving another harsh bruise just below the elbow. Girls flirting in close proximity to him was just the cherry on top of his shit day.

 

“Not until you learn how to stop being a killjoy,” said Irene. 

 

Again, Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was sickening.

 

Without another word, he left the two girls to finish the dishes and snuck out to the stables to see Ebony. There had been a heavy summer thunderstorm earlier in the day, and he needed to make sure she hadn’t spooked and hurt herself. Upon walking into the stable and seeing Mrs. Hudson talking to a particular handsome, blonde ranch hand, he immediately wished he hadn’t entered. He attempted to spin on his heel and run away, but not before Mrs. Hudson caught his eye and gave him a smile, beckoning him forward.

 

“Sherlock, dearie! I see you’ve got out of the way of Irene and Molly’s flirting while you could, huh?”

 

Sherlock, frozen suddenly in fear, kept silent. He would absolutely not be the one to out his best friend in an area in the country plagued by so much hatred. Mrs. Hudson, sensing the teenager’s abrupt terror, gently placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

 

“No worries, dear. I’ve known as long as she’s been here. Everyone who comes onto this ranch is in a safe space.”

 

Reassured, Sherlock let his shoulders relax. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing. 

 

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, before she turned to address both him and John, who had been silent through the entire exchange, leaning nonchalantly on a saddle rack and tapping his boot on the concrete flooring of the stable. “I’ll leave you two be, now. Need to talk to Greg and Mike about tomorrow’s ride, afraid I won’t be going along. My hip, you see…” Mrs. Hudson trailed off, giving them both a bright and cheery smile before exiting the stable and leaving Sherlock alone with John.

 

Immediately, Sherlock wanted to make a bee line for the exit. It was not that he didn’t want to be around John; quite the opposite, actually. He enjoyed John’s presence far more than anyone else’s, except for maybe Irene’s. However, after everything that had happened the day of the auction, he worried constantly of a misunderstanding between the two of them. Of what exactly, Sherlock wasn’t sure. He thought maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had shown weakness to John. He’d revealed the part of him he tried his hardest to shut out. So very few had seen him like that, so few in fact that he could count the number of people on just one hand.

 

A voice interrupted his thoughts. 

 

“Your mind is running.” John was looking at him with friendly, open eyes. There was a grin on his face and Sherlock couldn’t help the blossoming of warmth which spread through his chest. John crossed and uncrossed his legs, his knees cracking, and moved a step closer to Sherlock. “You’re doing the same thing you did in the truck. I can see it: your mind churning, twisting, looking into everything.”

 

Sherlock swallowed. “I’m just… Thinking about things.”

 

John chuckled loudly at that. “The great Sherlock Holmes, thinking about… Things.”

 

Blushing, Sherlock blinked down at his feet. Suddenly the dust there became very interesting.

 

“I’ve got a question for you,” John said softly. “Need your help with something.”

 

Sherlock was puzzled; he couldn’t seem to understand why John kept asking him for all these favors. It’s not like he brings in any real accomplishment. In fact, Sherlock hadn’t really done anything over the summer, besides attending the auction and making a few occasional efforts around the house. “I’m… Not sure what help I would be,” he tried.

 

A smile played at the corner of John’s lips. “Don’t worry, cowboy. It’s nothing too scary.” And then he winked.

 

White noise suddenly filled Sherlock’s ear drums and the ground was the ceiling and right was left and his legs turned into limp spaghetti. John was still talking, but Sherlock processed absolutely nothing of what he said. Words were useless, in that moment, because John had given him a nickname and then John had fucking _winked_ at him?!

 

“You with me?”

 

Sherlock stared straight ahead.

 

"Hey, okay, you're definitely not with me, then." John's hand came to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, guiding him to sit on an upturned bucket. Though Sherlock's mind had completely short circuited and was now dissociated from him, his body followed John's lead. “Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock blinked, coming back down to Earth, and turned to look at John, who was staring at him intently.

 

“Welcome back,” he said with a grin. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” said Sherlock. “Yeah. I’m okay, just spaced out for some reason.”

 

“That’s more than okay.” John stuck his hand out to him, which Sherlock stared at for a few seconds until realizing John’s intentions. He let himself be pulled back to a standing position. “Tomorrow I need to go out to the property perimeters to the East. Though the storm wasn’t too serious, the fencing out there hasn’t been checked in a few months. I need someone to keep company and help with any repairs. Nothing too expansive, you’ll just be holding tools and stuff to make my job a little bit easier. You in?”

 

“Yeah,” Sherlock said before he could talk himself out of it.

 

“Good,” John replied. “That’s good.” And then he winked again, and Sherlock left before he could do anything else stupid.

 

He sat on the rock he and Irene had frequented in their first few days, smoking and staring up at the vast space above for a good couple of hours. By the time he stood to sneak back into the cabin, the temperature had dropped rapidly and his bones were stiff with cold. His jeans and thin hoodie were nothing against the cold, and his teeth were chattering once he got into his bed. Across from him, Dimmock was asleep, looking menacing even whilst unconscious. Sherlock absently rubbed at his arm before falling into a fitful and troubled sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this hasn't updated in a long time! I've lost all motivation with fic recently with uni work piling up. This is a pretty short chapter, but kind of gets the ball rolling for some bigger plot points. I hope everyone enjoys (if you're still reading) x

To get to the Eastern perimeters of the ranch, John had to drive them out along the main road a few miles and then through about ten miles of private wooded roads. Sherlock wondered how on Earth he knew the way; they’d taken more turns in the last 20 minutes than he could remember ever taking in a car before, and every road looked exactly the same. Occasionally they would pass over a small creek and John would mention something about a bear sighting or cougars, but other than that the trip was relatively silent. Sherlock let himself be jostled around in the truck cab by the bumpy road, paying little attention to anything besides the space between John and himself. 

 

When they came to a clearing and John halted the truck, Sherlock’s breath was nearly taken away. It seemed they’d been on a steady incline on the wooded roads, as the world in front of them had opened up. Sherlock could see literally miles in front of him, the ranch sloping down over hills, forests, and plains. Nestled below he could see the farmhouse and the main road, mere dots and minuscule lines amongst the vast expanse of nature. The wilderness seemed to stretch on infinitely in each direction, and Sherlock was sure he had never seen something so remarkable in all his life.

 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” 

 

Sherlock looked to his left at John. The ranch hand had one hand comfortably on the steering wheel and the other on the keys in the ignition. His eyes were not looking at the view; they were looking at Sherlock.

 

“It’s extraordinary,” Sherlock whispered.

 

“As much as I loved the bay area, the culture, the activism, the diversity, I couldn’t live without this.” He gestured to the scene in front of them. “I feel like Wyoming lives in me, you know? Nothing quite like the fresh air in the West.” He stretched his arms out and pulled the key from the ignition. “Shall we get going then? We don’t want to be out once the sun goes down, it gets cold fast out here.”

 

Sherlock nodded and followed John from the truck to the first set of fencing to be repaired. He watched in interest as John quickly and efficiently fixed the broken slats and wiring, handing him tools when he asked for them. They worked like that for a couple hours, mostly in silence with John occasionally attempting to make small talk and Sherlock shying away from any actual conversation. 

 

As the sun began to lower in the sky just ever so lightly and Sherlock’s stomach began to rumble with hunger, John stood up straight at last, cracking his back as he did so. 

 

“Well,” he said cheerily, giving Sherlock a smile. “That’s all done now! And with daylight to spare!”

 

Agreeing with a nod, Sherlock helped John to pack up the tools and together they walked back to the truck. While John put the things into the bed of the truck, Sherlock stared out at the wide portrait of wilderness which was spread out in front of him. The sun had started to play golden games on the hills, painting various things like trees and cliffs in pigments of red and orange. It was most extraordinary, so extraordinary in fact that Sherlock didn’t notice until John pulled at his sleeve that he’d been staring off into the distance for the better of ten or so minutes. Already, the sun had lowered closer to the horizon line. Purples began to dance across the sky in dark streaks.

 

“We need to get going,” said John softly.

 

“Yeah,” replied Sherlock, nodding in a dissociative way.

 

John stepped closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder. The sky was so beautiful, and John’s hand so warm. Sherlock didn’t want to go back to camp. His mind tracked—in slow motion—all the things that could happen if he were to go back. The people he’d upset, the mistakes he’d make. None of that would happen if he could just stay on top of the mountain. With John.

 

“I don’t want to go back,” he said, finally turning to look at John. His forehead hurt. His eyes began to sting. Why were his eyes stinging?

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“I don’t want to go back,” he repeated.

 

And then he was engulfed in warmth and felt the first springing of tears from his eyes. John’s arms came to wrap around Sherlock’s trembling shoulders as he broke down, his face instinctively going into the crook of John’s neck. The ranch hand said nothing, just let his hand travel up and down Sherlock’s back as the young man sobbed.

 

“I can’t go back,” he cried.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispered, pulling back to look him in the eyes. His hand rested on the back of his neck, nestled just beneath the mess of curls on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock’s lip quivered as he heaved for air. “Just breathe,” said John softly.

 

Sherlock buried his head back into John’s shirt, allowing John to almost completely hold him in his arms. At some point they had slid to the ground; the grass beneath them was cool and damp, and the steady rocking motion that John was making with his body was synchronised with the sounds of nature. They sat like that for a good few minutes as Sherlock’s breaths began to even, the initial harsh severity of the panic attack beginning to subside.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said in a harsh whisper.

 

John simply shook his head and pulled him closer. Upon feeling the dry warmth of chapped lips on his temple, Sherlock froze.

 

“John,” he said stiffly. “What are you doing?”

 

John drew in a big breath, moving away from Sherlock and putting his head between his knees. Sherlock sniffled, inching his head to try and watch the older man.

 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” John stuttered. “I didn’t mean to…”

 

His words trailed off, disappearing into the cool air surrounding them. Sherlock bit his lip as a fresh tear rolled down his cheek. “It’s okay,” he whispered.

 

John’s head whipped upwards. “What?” he asked.

 

“I said it’s okay.”

 

“Okay,” John replied, his voice barely above silent. He scooted close to Sherlock again, and after a few moments of hesitation reached out to take Sherlock’s hand in his. “Okay,” he said again.

 

_Okay_ , thought Sherlock. _Okay._


End file.
